It was a strange outburst to a mere stranger.
“Come and see our bungalow,” said the girl hastily, and they walked on in silence.
When they arrived at the house, Fletcher was surprised to find a very charming bungalow, with a central lounge, from which the other rooms opened, tastefully furnished, and very pleasant after the desolate appearance outside, where most of the bungalows were shut up for the winter.
“What a charming little place,” he said, “I could enjoy a holiday here very well.”
He saw a look of gratitude on the girl’s face, but Sefton said, “A holiday, yes. But supposing you were condemned to live here all the year round, you would find it different.” He glanced round as though looking for something, and then sprang to his feet. “Come and see our Club,” he said with a harsh laugh.
“Have you got a Club here then?”
“Oh! It is called a Club,” he replied, “it is a sort of tin shanty, but we can get a decent drink there, and one can talk.”
Fletcher was surprised at his manner, but one glance at his eyes showed him that there was a devil biting him. With apologies to Ena, whose company he preferred to that of her brother, he made his way to the bungalow referred to, and was soon deep in conversation. After all, duty came before pleasure, and he was down here to find the solution to the problem, not to talk to a pretty girl.
“Yes,” said Sefton in answer to a question, “I was mixed up with this business. When I got there the man was as dead as mutton—it did not require much skill to tell that; it is a curious thing too …”
“What?” said Fletcher quite casually.